


Nation of Two

by monochromatic



Series: Tumblr Challenge: Stridercest Edition [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:31:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monochromatic/pseuds/monochromatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which virginity is a made-up concept and the points don’t matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nation of Two

**Author's Note:**

> day three of nsfw challenge: first time

 Loneliness – or at least, its physical approximation – is frowned upon in society. As a child, I'd often wondered what cohesive, interactive society might have looked like; now, as a God on an unbearably _populated_ planet, I've come to view it as a small ribbon in a much larger trophy case. But my friends celebrate it, even though it won't function on the same axle from which we have failed to dismantle ourselves. So my guess is that they are still using society as a unit of measurement, clinging to a reanimated corpse, theoretically speaking. I never met the proverbial man, let alone attended his fucking funeral. Wasn't so desperately invested, besides. So I can't identify currency in Hallmark marketing campaigns or in romantic films, and even my friends mistakenly frame me as some emotionally destitute hobo without a coin to my name.

Okay, I guess they aren't consciously doing that, but it is a thing they are doing.

I don't mind loneliness. In fact, sometimes, I crave it. A house of eight people is more like a hive, a hub of constant movement and noise. The other members of the household who spent their respective existences in isolation thrive off of it, a recompense for their perceived losses. Gotta' say, I never wanted for anything. Maybe that's part of my whole stoic, secure shtick. But whether or not that shtick could or even ought to be shucked from the husk of a self-imposed charade is sort of irrelevant at this stage of the game.

I am what I am. Which, at the moment, is turned the fuck on.

I enjoy my own body, likely because for the longest time, I had nothing else to test drive. But there is something thrilling and unique about the insane echelons of consciousness that can be achieved on one's own. I doubt I can feel another person's body the way I can feel my own. I guess I just have a better, deeper awareness of myself.

Don't call it narcissism though; that's Dave's department.

Dave is also the only asshole in the house who forgets to knock. And I'm the only asshole who still forgets to use locks, so I can't throw stones. And I wholly admit, the soft curse that Dave drops when he catches me with my hands all over myself is pretty satisfying. Nonetheless, it was an honest mistake. 

He looks at me, and I look at him, and he looks at my hand, still gliding loosely over my dick – autonomous foreplay, if you will.

He isn't looking at my face when he says, “Well, don't stop on my account.”

I suppose he expects me to offer a vague, convoluted retort but that would kill the mood. Besides, I honestly don't think I have enough oxygen upstairs.

“Shut the door.” I don't specify whether he needs to go out or come in, because that's totally his call. Not to mention I'm not really sure what I'd prefer. Does benign ambivalence constitute consent?

Dave shuffles inside, closes the door behind him. Locks it, red-faced and I can see his lips moving around silent nonsense. He gets stuck, standing in the middle of my room, looking around him – mostly at the floor – unsure of where he belongs. 

“Pull up a chair,” I suggest, though not nearly as cool as I'd like. “Get comfy, pop some corn. This shit's better than cable.”

Dave's cheeks are two flaming scarlet letters when he says, “I don't think it's corn I'm poppin'.” He coughs as if one of the words got lodged in his throat. I'm fortunate enough to have my blush accounted for, given the circumstance. But Dave's not wrong: this is at least fifteen degrees up from sloppy swapping of spit in the dark. But what was it Nixon said? 'If the President does it, it isn't illegal,' I think. Could gods be taken into consideration? Not that I want to align my values with that asshole, or anything.

I can admit when I'm self-conscious, and with Dave forced into sitting on the end of my bed, his eyes fixed on my hand, his mouth parted, well...it isn't unlike being under a spotlight. I can't decide if it's making me harder or threatening my good time.

“So uh, you're like, okay?” he murmurs.

“I am spectacular, thank you for asking.”

“I meant with me...y'know...” he's frowning, but he just looks cute, all pouty.

“What would be even better is if you watch me _watch you_.”

“Wait, what?”

“C'mon, man, take it out.” I nod at his obvious boner. And I don't actually expect him to, I'm just horny and talking bullshit, but it'd be nice to look at some cock that isn't compressed into pixels. Of course, he's just sitting there with nowhere else to be, so maybe he feels like he should. Jesus, I hope he doesn't feel like he _should_.

I say this with objectivity, but Dave has a _nice_ dick; not big enough to intimidate, but not underwhelming, either. This coming from a guy who might as well be a connoisseur of cock, given how much porn I've consumed. 

Dave goes easy on himself, doesn't seem to need as much stimulation as I do. He's muttering to himself and while that is adorable, it's also annoying as hell.

“Speak up.”

It's like I turned a volume switch because as if he hadn't been interrupted, he just gets louder halfway through his sentence. “...wondering what you like best. Do you like taking it, giving it?” 

It's subtle and anyone else in my place would've missed it, but Dave is my brother in godhood so I notice. I notice the way his hand squeezes a little harder on the last question. Or maybe I'm just an over-analytical asshole. 

“What.”

“Or maybe you don't have a preference, shit I'm sorry. I'm fucking this up, aren't I?” he asks without pause.

I, on the other hand, stop, remove my hand, and am sorely tempted to hide under the covers because the ensuing conversation is probably gonna' kill my boner. 

“No, you're not fucking this up.” He isn't. I could've tried to roll with the punches, indulge the fantasy he was clearly trying to tee up, but the question startled me and now I can't pretend it didn't happen. “I don't have a preference,” I answer, “I've never had sex.”

This isn't a difficult topic for me. I don't have most of the asinine notions barricading me into some boring, normative corner of repression that most folks do. But I know that, in spite of being a god and a creator and a Knight of Time and Sburb player and even a revolutionary – in some separate string of time and space – Dave has at least a few of those notions. I know what's coming next.

“ _What_?”

“What.”

“Wait – _what_?”

“Why is that so difficult to comprehend?”

Dave glances down at my dick – still hard, but let's not count our chickens, shall we. Then he looks at my face again and says, “Because you're _you_.”

“Um?”

“I just mean...” I never get to find out what Dave means, because he backpedals and tries for another route. “What about you and Jake? Weren't you guys a thing for like, months?”

“Sexual interaction isn't conditional on time spent together.”

“Yeah but... _months_.”

It's funny to me how Dave doesn't mind bringing up Jake. In the beginning, I was concerned about the repercussions of living in such close quarters together – not that Dave and I are pulling affectionate publicity stunts. For one thing, that would be a tremendously stupid thing to do, as I'm fairly certain it would tread all over some of those aforementioned boring, normative notions and probably raise all kinds of hell. We aren't brothers, not really, but as they say, it's the thought that counts.

But mostly, it just wouldn't be like us, whatever 'us' is.

“Not to mention the parade of hot ass you've had in and out of this place since...since...well since we got here.”

I shrug. “None of those instances of romantic intent ever matured to fruition.”

“Well...I mean...” and then his voice gets all small and under other circumstances, it would be cute. 

I clear my throat.

“Idunnomaybeifyouwanna...”

“Come again?”

“ _Do you want to fuck or something?_ ” he yells.

I kneel, press myself forward, into him, lay my index finger over his chapped lips. “My window's open.” I pull him down with me, on top of me, so that we can tangle ourselves up. He's flagged a little, but some kissing and rubbing ought to do the trick. 

We've been alive for ages, but we still screw like teenagers. 

I've kissed a lot of people, but no one's kissed me like Dave has. He's ferocious and hurried, sinks his teeth into my skin like anchors. In the dim, hazy glow of dusk, he's throwing caution to the wind and probably bruising my neck, his fingers curling in my shirt.

“So,” his breath is a thick, humid fog over my collarbone, “what _have_ you done?”

I'm not obligated to tell him. But I kind of want to tell him. “Just this.” I speak softly, into his hair. “Well, without dicks.” And that has got to be the most awkward laugh I've ever expelled, tacked onto the end of that sentence.

“We can go slower, man, it doesn't have to happen like, tonight.”

If I could shrug in this position, I would. “Tonight's fine.”

“Are you sure? We could just –”

I graze my nails across the back of his neck, fondle the messy scruff where hair meets skin. “I want it.”

“Oh. Okay.”

I don't really need the foreplay, and I've always possessed a more practical approach to it than most, but Dave hasn't been sitting in his room teasing himself for twenty minutes prior to this, and may need some revving up. I try not to think about all the shitty porn I've watched, try not to associate that with this. But I don't have much else to work off of.

I try to touch Dave the way I do when we're just making out, but it's like my fingers get caught on him, snagging in places they shouldn't. His teeth caress my ear and his cock bumps against mine and my breath gets stuck and my toes curl and I hold onto his shoulders as though he's my last hinge to gravity. 

We scramble together to push his pants out of the way, our legs getting raveled in denim and each other. The byproduct is sweet, sweet friction. He detaches himself, and I feel cold, watching him wrench himself out of his sweatshirt.

The sunset is sable, the shadows it casts all gray. It's enough to hide us from ourselves, but not so dark as to make this impersonal. I like the faded splash of light across Dave's bare belly; the skin there is lighter than mine, with less freckles.

I don't feel compelled to lose my shirt, and he doesn't try to take it off for me.

Then he gets between my legs and though I hate to admit it, I panic. But it's a false alarm; he bends over me, brackets my hips between his hands and leans down to kiss my stomach. It's a strange, funny thought to have right now, but I hope the stubble on my navel doesn't itch his nose. 

It isn't that I don't necessarily _like_ where this is going, but a blowjob really isn't what I had in mind for an entrée, and if Dave tries to suck my dick as an appetizer, this meal is going to be over way before dessert. 

Gracelessly, I shove my bottle of lube at him. “Come on, stop dicking around.” It was supposed to be a joke, but the punchline is pretty much ruined by my heavy breathing.

Dave sits back, stares at me down his nose, chewing on his lip. All I see are his high, freckled cheekbones, pretty eyes staring at me from behind his lashes, the way his chest rises and falls in broken, shallow waves. 

Maybe he finally gets the hint, that I don't need or want to be asked twice, because he takes the bottle from me. Maybe he knows not to equate inexperience with naïveté; he doesn't provide explanation, doesn't fumble over a mumbled sex ed lecture. 

Dave is inelegant as he coats his fingers. “I'm gonna' ride you, okay?”

Oh. “Okay.” But I'm looking down at myself, over the planes of my stomach and between my legs and in my hormone-addled head, I forget to censor my concerns. “You sure it's gonna, like, fit?”

He actually laughs. “Yeah, don't worry about it. This is your first time, not mine.”

Right. _Right_. While I'd been busy with an existential dialogue about my sexual inexpertise, I'd completely neglected to consider his own history. For all I know, it could be wide and varied. Then again, it might just be varied in the sense of glass or silicone, but I highly doubt that. Dave is good-looking and unfortunately aware of that fact.

The look on his face almost breaks me. He's braced against my bed with one hand, the other snuck behind him as if what he's doing back there is some kind of secret. His eyes are screwed shut and his lips are swollen from kissing and biting. His cheeks and the bridge of his nose are practically glowing pink.

“Hey, turn around.” My voice is a thick rasp, but I'm too preoccupied to care. 

“Wanna' watch?” he asks, amused.

God, I wish I had something smooth I could spit at him, but I've got nothing, just a sad nod of the head. 

I've done this to myself, so I know how it goes. I've seen someone else do it, watched enough porn. But I guess there's just that _je ne sais quoi_ , if you'll forgive my triteness, about watching somebody you love shove a finger in their own ass. Dave isn't methodical, either, doesn't seem to care about technique so much as he cares about putting on a show – typical.

“How does it feel?”

He throws me a weird look over his shoulder. “How does it look?”

“Good.”

There's an itch under my skin. I want to do it for him. I want to hold him close while systematically deconstructing him; to whisper not sweet, but disgusting nothings into his ear. But if Dave wanted that, he'd come to me. And I get the distinct impression that this performance isn't inviting audience participation, just yet.

Dave is quiet, insufferably so. Without turning away, I fumble for the remote on the end table, turn on the sound system, pump some bass through the walls and floor because in that respect, I am Dave's total opposite. Without an ever-present, allegedly pansophical guardian lurking in potentially every shadow, I never quite mastered the fine art of holding back.

As I watch him, as his head falls down between his slouched shoulders, as he caves in on himself, I can't help but weigh our lopsided experiences against each other. Who has he been with? How many times? And then I start nitpicking at the finer, grittier details: which positions? How much head has he given? How much has he received? Nothing important, nothing like 'Was he safe, as Gods is that something we even need to worry about?' – just the petty minutia that really isn't any of my fucking business. 

I like to write my jealousy off on coveting an absent father.

“Are you bored?” his voice is a whisper, deluged in breath. 

“Hardly.”

He stops, crawls up my body and perches on my stomach, not really obscuring my view so much as enhancing it. God, he's got a nice ass; I wonder if that's a family trait. He kicks the lube at me and my gut churns because oh god, he wants me to do it, he wants me to finger him – and it's not like I've never thought about it, but the reality is marginally less idyllic. Because, you know, in my fantasies, I know what the fuck I am doing.

“Come on, man.” Dave's getting to his hands and knees and _oh god_. “Unless...you don't wanna' or...” The look on his face breaks my heart.

“No, no I wanna'.”

It can't be that different, right? It can't be that different from doing it to myself. And if all else fails, my enthusiasm will make up for it. Dave seems to think so. He's sighing and his breath is so hot and I can feel it on my dick and I just want to sit up and push his head down, see how far I can get. He spreads his legs to give himself a little more leverage, starts fucking back on my fingers, and I wonder if I'm just not doing it right, what if I'm disappointing him, what if I suck –

Oh, I am not the one sucking in this scenario.

Dave's modus operandi is sloppy at best, but not at all unpleasant. Besides, I'm probably to blame for that, and my own technique isn't any better. I'm just thrusting my fingers while he gyrates his hips, readministering lube as I see fit. But Dave's lips, wet and soft against my skin, his tongue pressing inquisitively, like he's some weird, oral cartographer and – _goddamn_. 

“Dave – _holy shit_ –”

He stops, pulls off totally, leaving me literally out in the cold. He settles between my legs, chin in his hands, eying me like I'm his new toy and it pisses me off almost as much as it turns me on. “I don't think you're gonna make it,” he grins. 

“I'm not even close.”

I have imagined this. I have imagined it countless times, either slicked up in the shower or with my own saliva wetting my hand, ineptly trying to mimic the suction of a mouth. And I'd be kidding myself to try and say I haven't imagined it was Dave. But in those fantasies it was me calling the shots, I was holding his face and fucking his mouth, my fingers clenching his hair to control him, not holding on for dear life.

“Am I just awful at this blowjob business or are you that much of a Type A jackass?” Dave looks at me blankly, with my dick in his hand, still pumping, absently. 

“What.” His lips are wet and a little distended and it is very, very distracting. 

“I know you're into this,” he says, emphasizing one of his strokes, “but are you _enjoying_ it.”

“Yes.” Is that it? Is that all I'm going to offer? “God, yes.” Still smacks of disenchantment and Dave's fragile ego doesn't need a spoonful of my unapproachable, chilly bullshit. “What I'd really like to be into though, is _you_.” Wow. That. Sounded way smoother in my head. 

Dave laughs, and I try to stay stone-faced but I laugh too, because that was pretty much the epitome of ultra-lame. Then he kisses my dick and my thighs and he's laughing into my skin, “Knew you couldn't make it.” 

I won't argue with him. Won't agree with him, either. Just let him have his way, watch with an ounce of awe while he climbs up on top of me, wince as he teases me, and make an embarrassing amount of noise as he guides me inside him. He takes it slow, not even an inch at a time, and the sensation of being in him combined with the sound of his low, lingering whine and the way his nails are scraping along my stomach is driving me dangerously close to orgasm and I don't want him to be right but more pressingly I _don't want this to be over_.

“Slower,” my voice sounds choked but I'm still desperately holding onto my cards, trying to keep them close, “I wanna' enjoy this.”

He laughs like someone's got their fingers around his throat, “Nah, you just – _oh fuck_ – you just don't wanna' blow, yet.”

Can't fight with him there, even if I want to. So instead I close my eyes and don't look, can't look because if I watch him take my cock, this is going to be over so fast. 

“Jesus.” Dave's voice is a rasp. He's crouched forward on his knees, head hung low so that his hair is obscuring his face, and I can see him straining his fingers in my sheets. But the visual doesn't do the visceral justice. Dave, hot and wet and taut around me, constricting and shaking. 

Then he rolls his hips in slow, tight coils, and I finally understand the concept of hell and its circles.

It isn't merely the sensation of being inside him, though; it's the incisive scouring of his nails across my skin and the downy bristle of hair as his thighs brush against mine. It's the smell of his sweat as it supersedes his bodywash, distilling in runnels down his body. God, it's his flesh in my hands as I grab him, unable to move him because I don't know what to do. Sex always struck me as being instinctual, intrinsic to the human condition.

Then again, I don't know that either of us qualifies as human anymore, strictly speaking.

Apparently, immortal status doesn't absolve me of mortal stamina though, and I can feel it in my gut, that abrupt shift of pressure and I can't control it, can't wrench it back, can only watch in confused ecstasy and utter embarrassment as I buck up into Dave, and that first violent wave of hot, hot delirium washes through me. It's over too quickly. It's all over too quickly, the sex _and_ my orgasm, and this isn't how I'd imagined it happening. 

“Oh – _oh goddamn_.” Dave is growling through clenched teeth and rocking back and forth and I'm still hard, but neither one of us knows for how much longer. I'm still coming when he pulls off of me and collapses beside me, whining in my ear and kissing my cheek. He takes my hand and pulls it between his legs, and I am barely conscious enough to curl my fingers up for him. My strokes are weak but he doesn't seem to mind, pushes into them, compensating for my inability.

“God, you have a nice cock.” My mouth, it seems, has disconnected from my brain, and is making executive decisions. Dave moans into my neck, encouraging this bodily mutiny. “Maybe next time, you'll wanna' do me?” Were I in total control of my facilities, I would not have phrased that as a question.

“Yes, Dirk – _shit_.” And that is the expletive of a frustrated man, nearly there but not quite. “Don't stop, don't stop talking.”

“Usually you're telling me to shut up.” God, I sound drunk. Maybe I am.

“ _Dirk_.”

The dopey grin that overtakes my face is almost painful. “I've always wanted to be fucked with my legs over someone's shoulders,” I muse. The disconnect is no longer as potent, but for the sake of my sanity, let's just pretend. “I don't even know if that's as good as it looks, but no harm in trying.”

“Want –” he pauses, gasping, “want me to – throw your legs over my shoulders? Pound you into the mattress?”

“Yeah, Dave, make me beg for it.” I don't even really know what I'm saying, just relying on the first disjointed fantasy that comes to mind as I tread in the shallows of post-coital lethargy. “Fuckin' forget the bed, nail me on the carpet.” It's an appealing thought, rug burn be damned.

“Jesus Christ, why didn't you – _oh, fuck me_.”

I manage some control over my fingers and squeeze him, pulling at exactly the moment that he does. “Yeah, that too.”

Dave comes messy, rambling quietly, incoherently and keening into my shoulder while he ruts into my hand. The ensuing hot, sticky mess is oddly gratifying, infinitely more than my own. I imagine there will be marks where Dave is clutching me, little red notches in my right hip and bicep. He mouths my shoulder in half-assed kisses, more sloppy application of tongue and the occasional smack of lips, but it's intimate as hell and I love it.

He is still noisy, even after the fact: long, soft little sighs, the kind of thing I will mock him for in three or four hours' time, when we're both shuffling sleepily around in the dark. He'll hit me, idly, painlessly, and then with the same hand, he'll stroke my hair while I pull him close, wrap him in my arms, the two of us warming up to a second round.

I guess I can appreciate the appeal, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> rolls over   
> this took forever goodbye and goodnight, friends.


End file.
